


Legends

by blackchaps



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Assassins, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: Hawkeye is sent on a mission to kill a legend. Shit goes sideways from there, okay, before then, but you get the idea.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 29
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came out of the question, "Where was Hawkeye during Winter Soldier?" And then this happened, and I'm not sorry. Okay, I'm a little sorry, mostly that I ran out of gas and didn't give this the 50 thousand word count with porn that it deserved. Mea culpa.

***

“I don’t care what mission he goes on, just send him!” Pierce’s voice roared through Sitwell’s cell phone. “The last thing we need is Hawkeye in the middle of this situation!”

“Yes, sir.” Sitwell hated his life. “Hail Hydra.” But Pierce had disconnected. Without even looking, Sitwell grabbed a file from a stack behind his desk. The pile had been there, growing, for years, and all of the cases were lost causes. Cases that would run an agent in circles for weeks.

Perfect for Hawkeye – what a pain in the ass.

Sitwell didn’t have time to debrief him on whatever the hell this was. If, for some reason, he needed Hawkeye, he’d ping his tracker. “Joan, see Hawkeye gets this assignment immediately.”

“Certainly, Agent Sitwell.”

***

“Nat, I got to go,” Clint said with real regret, leaning against the doorjamb. Tracking her down hadn’t been easy, no one ever thought to look in her quarters. “I can’t paint your nails tonight.”

“Who’s your handler?”

“Sitwell.” Clint shrugged. He didn’t hate the guy. “It’s an easy track and drop situation. In and out.”

Nat nodded. “Be careful. I’m still running ops with Cap, so I can’t pull your ass out of the fire.”

“I’m always careful. Hey, get Cap a date, if you can.” Clint smirked, and she returned it. They both knew it was a lost cause. Cap would always love Peggy, and until someone invented a time machine, that wasn’t going to happen. Clint trotted back to his room to get packed and read through everything again.

How hard could it be to find a guy in a suit?

***

New York was the same, dirty, and Clint was proud of his ability to blend in, even while carrying a Remington sniper rifle in his backpack. His search area hadn’t worried him on first read, but as he stood at the intersection, men in suits flowed past him.

That was it. The description read: tall, most likely Caucasian, black suit. He spotted four men fitting that in his first block, and he couldn’t snipe them all. Oh, he could, but he didn’t operate like that.

In fact, he didn’t do wet work any longer, not since Budapest. He rubbed his face and crossed the street just to keep moving. An outdoor café called his name, and he found a spot where he could watch pedestrians.

Tucking his backpack securely between his feet, he ordered a coffee and a pastry, and considered the assignment again. He’d been so happy to get one – boredom sucked – especially when Nat was off having a great time with Cap – that he hadn’t questioned any of it.

It was time for a few questions. The one-page file he’d shredded after memorizing it had been sparse, to say the least. He had a six-block area for a possible sighting but with that description, he would have to get lucky.

The file had said the Suit was most likely an operative of some variety. Clint would guess CIA. They had a tendency to lose their people. Because they were dicks.

“Here you go.” The waitress smiled at him. “First time to New York?”

Clint nearly cursed. He looked like a damn tourist. “No, but it’s been awhile.” He was going to have to start over on this op. “Hey, what’s this weird story I heard about a guy in a suit?”

Her eyes sparkled. “If you’re in danger, he shows up at the last possible moment and saves you!” She laughed. “Best urban legend ever. Also, word is that he’s super hot.”

Forcing a laugh, Clint handed her a fifty. “Thanks. Keep the change.”

That brought the conversation to an end, and she scurried off. He wanted to punch someone, someone like Sitwell. Clint had been sent to find a legend. This was a ghost assignment. He dug his phone out and considered calling Nat.

She’d know if he was being side-lined. Of course, she’d have warned him before he left if she’d have known. He stared down at the Shield issued phone and a chill inched its way down his spine. Sipping his coffee didn’t much help.

Shit was going down, and he’d been sent out of the line of fire. If he had a bit of sense, he’d walk to Stark Tower and wait there. Of course, Tony was living in California now, but Jarvis was still around.

Sitwell had done this to him, and Clint had never liked the guy. Coulson had though, and that had been enough. It wasn’t enough any longer.

Regretting his decision, Clint sent a quick text to his handler.

_No sightings. Coming back._

_Complete the mission, Hawkeye._

That wasn’t Sitwell. Sitwell liked to curse in his texts. Clint ate his pastry in two bites and drained his coffee. He could go dark, wait to see what happened at Shield, or complete this mission, taking on an urban legend who was apparently super-hot.

Or… he could do both.

***

The safehouse was one that was off the Shield’s database, so Clint destroyed his phone and threw it down a sewer grate before he even turned that direction. If they checked the tracker in his shoulder, the place was burned, but he’d take that risk.

Once there, he ditched his sniper rifle and stripped off his clothes. For once, he looked too good, which would’ve made Coulson laugh. He took a quick shower and went to tear through all the clothes he’d stashed here over the years.

It was Spring, and the nights would be cold, so definitely layers. He’d use the backpack for a few odds and ends, but no weapons. When, not if, he found the suit legend, he’d improvise. There were lots of ways to kill a man.

And that brought Clint up short. Someone who showed up at the last minute to help people probably didn’t deserve killing. Unless he was a CIA operative just screwing with people. Then it might be okay. Coulson would’ve known what to do from the start.

Clint sighed loudly. He’d drop off the grid, and when he found this guy, he’d make an assessment. Hopefully, he’d figure it out. No matter what Shield said, he wasn’t killing someone for nothing, not any longer.

One thing he wouldn’t do was worry about Cap and Natasha. They were a hell of a lot smarter than him. If Shield tried to mess with them, well, it’d be bad, for Shield.

The hardest decision was his ID, whether to take it or trash it. It was his Clint Barton license. It was accurate, right up until he went into Shield. He’d grabbed it, not thinking, and now, he wasn’t sure.

He took it, deciding that not having anything was more dangerous. Mind made up, he grabbed some cash and loaded the backpack with a few clothes and a blanket he rolled up from the bed. The rifle went in the hidey hole in the closet.

Lastly, he found a baseball cap that endorsed the Mets and made sure his boots were tied. Picking up didn’t take too long, and he locked the safehouse tight. Natasha might need it. Satisfied that he hadn’t spent too long, he got a move on, catching a cab back to his target area.

The sun was almost down now, and he curled down into his jacket, just walking the streets. Later, he’d find some food.

Sunrise found him still walking, but he knew every block in his search area now. From the old bodega to the coffee truck and down to a moldy library: he wouldn’t get tripped up rubbernecking like a tourist.

Today, he’d get some coffee and watch who was going where. By lunch, his stomach was protesting, and he went to the bodega to get a sandwich and a bottle of water. He ate it leaning against the bricks of an old boarded up building.

Ten. He’d counted ten men in suits that were tall, but none of them seemed particularly dangerous. On the last bite of his sandwich, he realized he was being an idiot. He was looking for an operative, and they had a certain walk about them. The clothes didn’t matter.

Some guy set up a table of burner phones not far from where Clint was lurking, and he bought one. Taking it to a private alley, he called Natasha’s burner phone and left his new number. If shit did go sideways, she’d call him. He was sure of it.

Phone tucked away safely, he went back to prowling the streets, finding the places where the homeless hid. They gave him side-eyes, but there were no words. He wasn’t quite dirty enough to pass, not yet.

***

A week later, Clint was done. Sure, he’d been on horrible ops before, but on those, he had someone in his ear. He wasn’t just sleeping on the sidewalk and wandering about, hoping to spot someone who clearly didn’t exist. Clothes filthy, stomach angry, he rubbed his eyes and stumbled down to the coffee cart.

After this, he was heading to his safehouse to take a shower and sleep eight hours. He’d search for unicorns tomorrow. With the last of his cash, he paid, grabbed his brew, and turned, slamming directly into a guy built like a wall.

“Shit!”

“I usually drink it, not wear it.” Almost a whisper voice, not mean but strong, deep.

Clint looked up into bluish grey eyes. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” He couldn’t believe how dumb he was.

“I get it. You’re sorry.” He was tall, black hair with specks of grey, good-looking, built, and dressed in a black suit with a white shirt unbuttoned at the top, overcoat was good quality, shoes had wear on them. “Did it get you?”

“It seems to all be on you.” Clint brushed ineffectually at the guy’s shirt and coat, feeling like an idiot. “How are you not screaming?”

“High pain tolerance.” The guy was charming. “Before I go change, you need another cup?”

“Shit.” Clint sighed, slumping. “No, I’m broke.” He should pay for the guy’s dry cleaning. “If you give me a couple of days, I can get that shirt cleaned for you. We could meet here.”

“Not necessary. I have more shirts.” He stepped aside, and before Clint could protest, ordered two coffees. Clint should probably run, but he needed coffee bad. The guy handed one to Clint. “You look like you need this.”

“Thanks. And sorry.” Clint hung his head but took the coffee because he felt like death. They stepped back out of the way, and Clint found himself sinking down to take up some space on a park bench. The first sip was heaven, and he looked up when the guy barked a laugh.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” The guy turned, and Clint watched as he disappeared into the crowd, just gone. He was a big guy, broad shoulders, and that shouldn’t be possible.

Clint blinked several times. “I just met a legend,” he whispered.

***


	2. Chapter 2

***

“Mr. Reese, we have a new number.”

John controlled his sigh. He’d hoped for a day off, just to hit the dry cleaner, if nothing else. He patted Bear on the head and watched Finch fuss with his printer. It looked as if it was going to take a minute, so he leaned back and shut his eyes.

“Should I leave you to your nap?”

“That’d be great.” John got up, took a long stretch, and wandered over to the glass board. “Huh.”

“That word always strikes a bit of fear into my heart.” Finch had his eyebrows up.

“I know him. He just spilled coffee on me, over at the Coffee Shack.” John studied the picture, but he was sure. “He had a few days growth on his face, but that’s him.”

“That shirt is ruined.” Finch sniffed as if it had been offensive. “That’s Clint Barton, and he could be the perpetrator, with his training.” Finch pointed at one of his sheets. “Army trained sniper.”

“He didn’t look like the type.” John went through the incident again in his mind. “But…”

“Yes?”

“His backpack was the kind you put a sniper rifle inside.” John started reading. “I figured it was surplus.”

“There’s no recent data on his living situation. No credit cards. It’s like he left the Army and disappeared.” Finch hated that. He preferred their numbers to have large digital footprints.

“He’s homeless, like a lot of vets.” John would find him and give him the dry-cleaning bill for his shirt.

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

Refusing to release his coffee, Clint went after him aggressively, alternating gulps of coffee and bursts of movement. He utilized all benches and a lamppost or two, just to keep that dark overcoat in sight, barely, and he was Hawkeye.

Damn it.

The guy looked back, eyes sharp and hard, and Clint froze, so glad when a guy pushed into him, nearly knocking him down. Clint waited, counted to five, took the verbal abuse with a shrug, and moved that way before looking.

When he did look, the guy was gone, and Clint shot up a fire escape. There wasn’t much around except apartment buildings and the crusty library. He looked at it again, scooting down and circling it.

It looked abandoned, and he found a spot to sit by another homeless person. The last of his coffee was little comfort to the cold concrete under his butt.

“This is my spot,” the woman grumbled at him.

Clint burrowed down into his coat. He wasn’t sure how long he wasn’t going sit here.

“That big guy just went inside, if you waiting on him.” She got to her feet, and before Clint could think, she kicked him in the chest. “My spot! My spot!”

“Okay! Okay!” Clint wasn’t going to hit her. He had the information he needed, and he dodged another kick before getting the hell away. The library was old, moldy, falling down, and the perfect place to hide, say if an ex-operative were doing that.

Satisfied, he headed for his safehouse. He needed more money, and a shower. Some sleep would be nice too. His step was bouncy. He’d found a legend.

Accidentally.

But it counted.

The shower was heaven, and he threw the filthy clothes to the corner. He’d put on something else, now that he knew where to stake out. The sandwich from the bodega lasted two seconds, and he tucked his burner phone under his pillow before shutting his eyes.

Buzzing woke him up, and he scrambled for the phone.

_911\. No 411. Go darker. Shield compromised. Strike squads._

Clint snapped the phone in half, dressed fast, grabbed his rifle, the spare handgun for his ankle, and all the cash before leaving like he was on fire. He went to the roof, secured his backpack, and didn’t waste time.

If Natasha was scared, he had to get the tracker out of his shoulder, right now. She hadn’t even been worried in Budapest, so this was catastrophic. He had to find a hole, jump in, and pull the dirt over the top. Anger that he was on this ghost mission and couldn’t help her would have to wait.

When he hit the street, he moved towards the old library. It was mid-afternoon, plenty of sunshine, and he considered whether going to Stark Tower was the better move here. It wasn’t Natasha’s idea of ‘darker’ however. When she said darker, she meant don’t even breathe, and if Shield was going down. He was screwed.

He shifted his backpack and slowed way down, keeping an eye out for the legend and anyone else who might want to kill him.

***


	4. Chapter 4

***

“Any luck, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked as John was heading back to the Library.

“Not yet.” John had a feeling that Barton had moved on, maybe found a homeless shelter for a few days. Even Joan hadn’t seen him. “I got you tea.”

“Thank you.”

John stopped to give the woman who slept near the front entrance the hot chocolate he’d bought her. She was always there, and he didn’t have the heart to roust her. At least, it was only her.

“Some guy was here. I kicked him. I did.” She smiled into her cup. “He got moving!”

“Thanks.” John took two steps, thought about it, and then went back to her. “Did he have a hat?”

“Mets. Stupid game.” She rocked back and forth. “Stupid man.”

Slipping her a five, he went around to the back of the building. He made sure it was clear before he went inside and right to Harold’s desk. “He was here. Right outside.” He put the tea down.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence, or did he follow you from the coffee stand?” Harold took a sip, nodding in approval.

“If he did follow me…” John trailed off. He hadn’t seen anyone, and he’d been cautious. If Barton was that good, this entire situation was different than they thought. “You’re sure he’s not CIA?”

“I’m sure of that.” Harold shook his head. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“He’s here for me,” John said. He was sure of it. The surprise in those eyes, and the assessing looks, followed with a desire to meet later. Barton had been sent to kill him. “Shit,” he whispered.

“It’s more imperative than ever that you find him, Mr. Reese.”

“He’s probably got a partner.” John would watch the rooftops more than usual. He went to get a gun with a little more stopping power and range. “Go dark, Harold. Take Bear to Fusco, and don’t come up until I call you.”

“I’ll go to our third safehouse.” Harold was packing, quickly and efficiently. “Keep me in the loop, John, and wear a bullet-proof vest.”

John nodded and went to get his latest one. He also picked up an extra gun and knife.

***


	5. Chapter 5

***

Clint circled the block twice, just to be sure, before raiding his coffee stand for the largest cup of caffeine available. He also got a muffin.

Satisfied, he turned and met those grey eyes. “Mr. Legend.”

“Mr. Barton.” The guy loomed. “I assume that sniper rifle you’re carrying is for me.”

Before Clint could open his mouth to lie, a white van jumped the sidewalk right at him. “Shit! Run!” He shoved the legend in the general direction of safety. “Run!”

The strike team moved in on him fast, and one of them got a face full of piping hot coffee for his trouble. Three of them and a driver, and Clint was honestly a little insulted. He swept a leg, took a punch to the face, glad they weren’t shooting at him.

People were running and screaming, and he put the strike team down with prejudice. Natasha had warned him, and he hadn’t been able to resist coffee. He deserved a couple of punches to the face. Moving inside the van, he was just in time to see Mr. Legend yank the driver to the street and knock him out.

“Get in!” Legend was behind the wheel, and Clint slammed the door, agreeing with this plan. He moved up to the passenger side and buckled as they beat it around a corner. The guy could drive, which was a relief.

“I have a tracker in me. It has to come out. They’ll just send another team!” Clint held on around another corner. He needed to bail out, run away, but it was barely possible he’d found an ally in the legend.

Legend managed a long glare even while driving. “Why are they after you?”

“I don’t know!” Clint didn’t, except that he was Hawkeye, and that was usually enough. “Ditch the van. I’ll keep moving.”

“No.” The legend touched his ear. “Harold, we need a Faraday cage and the big first aid kit.”

Clint stared at him, seeing the comm unit in his ear. “You have a handler.”

“The location will be burned,” Legend said, clearly not to Clint. “Got it. Give me twenty.”

“Why are you helping me? I was sent to kill you!” Clint considered jumping out and running again. The guy seemed nice, and everyone agreed that he really was super-hot, even Clint, but this was all probably a bad idea. “Not that I was gonna, but I thought about it!”

“I’m not easy to kill, and that’s what we do, help people, even assassins.” Legend traveled at legal speeds now, just another van in a city full of them. “Are they calling in another team?”

“Count on it.” Clint groaned. “I never got my coffee!” He grinned at the look Legend gave him.

Ten minutes later, they pulled right into a garage, and Clint got out fast. “You can do this?”

“It’ll hurt.” Legend got the door, and Clint had his backpack, coat, and shirt off by the time they hit the kitchen where a first aid kit was spread out. “Harold, you’re not supposed to be here!”

“You might need help.” Harold? Clint assumed this was the handler, said, “The entire house blocks signals. Get on the table.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint naturally ceded authority to him, sliding up and pointing at his right shoulder blade. “It’s about four inches down from the neck, and it’s deep, but it’s big. You can’t miss it.”

“I have a small wand that detects metal.” Harold moved in on him, and Legend was getting a scalpel.

Clint grabbed a good hold. “Do it! Fast!” He knew how quick Shield Strike teams could move, and they were on the way.

“Settle down. Unless they have another team in the city, we have the time to do it right.”

“John, a bit more disinfectant please.” The wand was beeping.

“Are you going to back seat operate?”

“I’ve operated more than you, Mr. Reese.”

Clint felt like he was at a tennis match. “For the record, I wasn’t going to shoot you.”

“Maybe,” John? Reese said. “You were still in reconnaissance mode.”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t do wet work any longer.” Clint was sure he wouldn’t have shot him. “Also? People say you’re hot. They’re right.”

“We can date later.” Reese put a towel over Clint’s head. “Hang on.”

Clint grunted and leaned into the pain. It was sharp, hard, but he’d had worse. He hung on tightly and kept his mouth firmly shut.

“Wipe the blood, Harold.”

“There’s quite a bit of it.”

“I’m not there yet.” Reese’s voice came from far away. “Forceps.”

“I’m going to faint.”

It was easy to laugh. Clint liked these guys. He wondered who they worked for, curious if they were freelancers like he’d been before Shield. There was pressure, and he groaned, forcing his body to be still.

“I got it.”

“Be careful! He may want to use that arm again!”

“Back seat surgeons.” Reese sounded amused. “Take it. Let’s sew him up.”

“Just tape it. It’s fine,” Clint said, endorphins crashing all around his body.

“Mr. Barton, there’s an enormous hole in your back. We’re going to stitch it.”

The sound of a door crashing inward brought everything into sharp focus. He’d known they didn’t have much time. “Move! Move!”

Reese had a gun out by the time Clint had the one off his leg. “Harold! Down!”

“Please don’t kill anyone,” Harold said, and Clint agreed. He’d worked with these guys, but this was ridiculous. Why was Shield trying to snatch him? The answer blinked into his head. They were after Natasha, and he would be a valuable hostage.

“Kill everyone but Barton!”

“I’m done being nice.” Clint shot one in the head, threw the abandoned scalpel into the throat of another, and jumped up to tackle a third. Reese had two going at him, but the random shot missed him. Clint made sure Harold was safe before going after the one on the door. Snapping his neck was the easy way to go.

Spinning, Clint grabbed his backpack and some medical tape. “Go! Go! Go!”

Reese secured Harold, who was clutching a number of items, and they were moving to a car that was parked out back. Harold drove, and Reese pushed Clint to his stomach in the back seat, taping up the gaping wound by reaching over the front seat.

“Blood trail everywhere,” Reese muttered.

“No fingerprints but mine?” Clint felt light-headed, now that he wasn’t punching people. His back was screaming in agony. He allowed himself a grunt and rode the wave.

“We’re not amateurs,” Harold said. “He’s lost a lot of blood, John.”

“Didn’t I say that?” Reese’s voice grew dim. “Take us to number five.”

Whatever Harold said, Clint didn’t hear. He dropped into the black.

***

“Is he alive?” Harold’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“Just unconscious.” John finished the job and covered him with their emergency blanket. “Victim and perpetrator.”

“I doubt he’d have shot you.” Harold didn’t sound certain. “You recognize him now?”

John gave him another look. “No.”

“That’s Hawkeye. The Avenger? Hawkeye?” Harold nodded to emphasize. “The picture that I found was a good fifteen years old.”

“Oh.” John couldn’t remember what any of the Avengers looked like, except Stark. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. That scalpel throw was impossible.” Harold turned right so he wouldn’t have to stop at a stoplight. Someone might look in the car and see all the blood. “I feel like we were at a slaughterhouse.”

“We were, but I didn’t kill my guys,” John said, feeling defensive.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” Harold sped up and turned once more. John checked Barton’s pulse again, but it was strong. Harold made a funny noise. “Hawkeye.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan.” John sat back down and smirked at him, just to tease him.

“He crashed through the window of IFT. We all thought he would die.”

“I’m shocked you weren’t in a secure room.” John had been overseas when the attack happened. He’d missed killing aliens, and occasionally it bothered him how much he wished he’d been able to help.

“We were evacuating. Or we were trying.” Harold pulled into a garage, taking a deep breath when he shut off the car. “This entire situation means Shield sent someone to kill you.”

“Barton called me a legend.” John got out and started the process of hauling Barton in the house and onto a gurney in a back bedroom. “He had to look for me, so I don’t suppose they have that much information.”

“They’re looking for us.” Harold was helping with this and that. “Still, I’m certain this will impact our operation going forward. He’ll report back to someone.”

“Maybe.” John got him settled on his stomach. “Maybe not.”

“Let’s get him patched up. Call Dr. Tillman. Get her here.” John didn’t want to borrow trouble. They’d figure this out as they went.

“I agree.” Harold left him to it, going back to the living room.

John pushed Hawkeye’s hair out of his eyes and started cleaning the blood off his back and arms. Something was up at Shield. John knew it. They wouldn’t send a team to kill Hawkeye unless all hell was breaking loose.

***


	6. Chapter 6

***

That IV had to come out, and Clint was halfway sitting, trying to get a thumbnail under all the goddamn tape when a hand pressed into his arm. Still panicked, he managed not to lash out at the little guy.

“Please, Mr. Barton, don’t. You’re safe here. I promise.”

John was suddenly right there, making sure Clint couldn’t strike out. “Harold, he nearly punched you. Please move away.”

“Mr. Barton?”

Clint focused on him, measuring his breaths. “You’re his handler? The voice in his ear?”

“Yes.” Harold nodded. “You slept for six hours. No one has come. You’re safe.”

Slumping back, Clint groaned and rubbed his crusty eyes. “Shield is after me. You don’t know them. They don’t quit. This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to kill me!”

There was a long silence, and now the legend was next to the bed. “Shield isn’t after you, not any longer. They have bigger troubles.”

A lack of intel made Clint groan again. “Okay, I won’t run out the door, but I have to get up.”

“Careful,” Harold fussed.

The guy reminded Clint so much of Coulson that it hurt, and it also just hurt pretty much everywhere. He felt a little better when he was sitting more or less upright, very careful not to press on the huge bandage that was his shoulder.

“The doctor said you’ll regain full mobility. John managed to miss severing any tendons,” Harold said, full of snark.

“She also said I did a great job,” John replied.

“Of not killing him outright,” Harold finished. “Mr. Barton and I will be fine. You have other matters to attend to, Mr. Reese.”

John rolled his eyes, but Clint watched him get ready. “I’ll leave you and your hero alone. I’ll need--.”

“Yes, yes, go, Mr. Reese.”

Clint waved at him with his good arm, but if he opened his mouth, he’d start laughing. Harold clearly had Reese’s number and loved bossing him around with it. Natasha would love them.

Natasha.

“I need a burner phone.” Clint sat further up. He was a little dizzy, but he was fine. “I’m okay. I can go buy one.”

“Stop. Please.” Harold drawled out the words. He was back quickly with a phone and a cup of coffee. “Drink first.”

“Fine,” Clint grumbled, but he was so glad to see coffee. It was the perfect temperature, loaded with sugar and cream, and he didn’t breathe until it was all gone. He took the phone with his good arm. “Number?” he asked as he dialed Natasha’s phone.

Whatever Harold had said was lost in the reality of the message that there was no phone attached to that number any longer. Clint slumped. “Shit.”

“Shield is in disarray.” Harold took the phone back and tucked it away in his suit pocket. “Give me a moment, and I’ll turn on the news for you while you eat.”

“Why?” Clint barked, angry at the whole world. Angry because Coulson was gone. Angry because Shield was full of rats, and angry that he was in bed depending on strangers when he should’ve been out there fighting at Natasha’s side. “Why?”

“We help people.” Harold reached like he might pat him on the arm and then thought better of it, moving towards the door. He brought Clint the TV remote. “I’m sorry.” And he left the room.

Clint almost shouted an apology after him. Frustrated, considering ripping that tape off, he clicked on the TV and just stopped. Stopped. What the ever-loving hell? The bad news went on and on, and he whispered, “Cap, you utter bastard.”

“Your Captain America does a thorough job of destroying whatever he puts his mind to.” Harold had a tray, and he fussed around Clint, forcing him to eat and drink more of the wonderful coffee. “You won’t tell him about us?”

“Of course not,” Clint mumbled around a mouthful of toast. “He’d adopt you guys, and Reese would hate that.” He really did like them both. “I wouldn’t have shot him.”

“You hope.” Harold didn’t look fooled. “You’re more like Mr. Reese than is probably good for you.”

There was no answer to that. Harold touched his ear comm unit. “Yes, Mr. Reese, I’m here. Give me a moment.” He was gone from the room quickly.

Clint glared at the TV and started stretching. He had things to do. No one even knew where Cap was, and they were arresting all agents of Shield as terrorists. Last time he checked he was an agent of Shield.

“Let’s get you a shower,” Reese came into the room and snapped off the television. Clint pulled at the tape, but Reese efficiently stripped out the IV and stayed close unless Clint fell down.

“Everyone is after me,” Clint muttered, refusing to wobble. He was fine. “You guys need to get the hell out of here.”

“Harold is packing up right now.” Reese encircled Clint’s shoulder in Saran Wrap. “You have a safehouse?”

“Yes.” Clint would check the one he assumed was burned first. “I destroyed the paper file on you, and from the looks of the building, I’m pretty sure the servers are gone. You guys won’t be bothered by Shield.”

“Barton, there is no Shield. If you go there, you’ll be arrested.” Reese got the water going and helped him undress. “Which is fine, if you want to spend the rest of your life in a deep hole.”

Clint shuffled into the shower. “God damn it,” he muttered as he took a military shower. This situation wasn’t one he ever pictured. Getting shot – yes. Getting killed – yes. He wondered if even Coulson could’ve imagined all this chaos. Probably. “God damn Hydra.”

“Think those guys that were after you were Hydra?”

“Definitely. My friends were busy trying not to get shot.” Clint snapped off the water, took a deep breath, and stepped out to grab the towel that Reese was holding. “You and Harold need to get far away from me, maybe another continent.”

Reese shrugged. “You can’t even put on socks.”

It was a sad truth. Clint let Reese help him get dressed. Wait. “Where did these clothes come from?”

“Harold. He’s a mother hen.” Reese sighed like it was the trial of his life.

“You should marry him quick.” Clint didn’t look at Reese’s face when he said it, but they were clearly very attached. Dressed, somewhat warm, and feeling less like he might pass out. Clint went towards the front of the house. “I’m leaving. Bye.”

“See ya.” Reese didn’t follow him.

Clint almost made it out the front door, but Harold gave him a long judgey look from where he was packing up a computer bag.

“What?” Clint shouldn’t have said anything, but he’d been given that look too many times by Coulson not to respond.

“Your shoulder is going to need medical care. Mr. Reese had to assist you with your socks, and while I’ve located Captain America, I’m not sure visiting him is the best idea.” Harold zipped his bag in a quick motion that seemed like a statement. “The Black Widow, however, sent you a message, and you should read it before you decide your next step.”

Frozen in surprise for one second, Clint went right to furious. He crossed to him and got right in Harold’s face, not surprised when Reese’s big hand landed on his chest, pushing him slightly back. “What do you know?”

“The old newspaper trick.” Harold handed him a classified section of the New York Times.

Snatching it, Clint glared at them both. Harold snorted. “I don’t need your protection, Mr. Reese.”

“Right.”

They were making it hard to think with their obnoxious flirting. Clint found the ad quickly and used the code, impressed that Harold knew it. It was an old Soviet one.

_Stay dark, C. You aren’t any good to me if you’re arrested. N._

“Shit!” Clint was going to yell at her so hard when he saw her. Natasha was going to ride this out, and she didn’t want him mucking it up. And he would. It was what he did. Clint snapped the paper aside and glared at Harold. “So? I know your type. The voice in the ear – handler – someone who has all the answers: what do I do now?” He might’ve yelled the last four words.

Damn Coulson. Teaching Clint a little too well how to rely on the voice in his ear.

“You can work for me.” Harold sounded very sure of that.

“Harold,” Reese said. He drawled the name out for so long that it almost made Clint laugh.

“Mr. Barton, please, just listen.” Harold was the one who moved now, stepping close. He was small, dressed so nicely, and Reese loomed over the back of him showing off his murder face. Harold took a small breath. “While Mr. Reese is incredibly competent, I sometimes need help in areas where someone with your skill set would be an asset.”

Belief was easy, so was the self-hate that came with it. “You need a screw up. Like me. To what? Make things worse?” He turned away, unable to see what would be pity on his face. He’d nearly gotten them killed by a Strike team. Natasha wanted him to stay away, so more people were safe.

“Mr. Barton,” Harold said, the words sharp and hard, “the mistakes made at Shield weren’t your fault, and their failure to utilize your abilities after the Battle of New York was pure stupidity on their part.” He took a short breath. “While you wait for your friend to give you the all clear, would you consider giving us some assistance?”

“Harold, if he doesn’t want to, let it go.”

Turning quickly, Clint glared at them, trying to put his hands on his hips and failing because his arm hurt. He had to think, and it was impossible with them looking at him. Fast, he went out the door, slamming it behind him.

By the time he hit the sidewalk, the chill of the air and the rain made him want to whimper. He crammed his hands in his pockets and frowned when he pulled out a phone and a wad of bills. Refusing to have the pride to return the stuff, he grabbed a cab at the corner and went to his safehouse.

It was destroyed, as in the building had been burned down. Hydra had gone there first.

***


	7. Chapter 7

***

“Occasionally, Harold, I think you’ve lost your mind,” John said, making sure to sound as incredulous as he’d felt when Harold had dropped his bomb. “He was going to shoot me!”

“If he’d have wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” Harold’s voice was dry as dust. “Let’s get back to the Library. I’m sure Bear needs a walk.”

John was never going to let Harold live this down. “I know he’s your hero, but he’s an Avenger. He’s not going to skulk around the city.”

“Like we do?” Harold practically growled at him.

“Like we do.” John started wiping everything down and bagging towels and sheets. Harold trooped out to the car a couple of times with bags. And John could tell from the limp that he was pissy. “And tell me about these jobs that Barton would be better at than me.”

“You are a scalpel, Mr. Reese, sometimes, we require a hammer.” Harold handed him the car keys. “I need breakfast.”

Waiting was a good part of any agent’s job, and John was good at it, too. It wasn’t until after he had his coffee and a large breakfast platter in front of him, eggs looked amazing, that he said, very calmly, “I’m a damn good hammer.”

Harold sighed and rolled his eyes, which John always enjoyed. “You are my favorite hammer, Mr. Reese. Can we move on with our day?”

“Can you ballpark the number of assassins you’ll be hiring?” John smirked. “Just so I can buy the appropriate amount of guns.”

Narrowing his eyes, Harold did the thing where he completely ignored John, except that his face spoke absolute volumes. John loved his job.

***


	8. Chapter 8

***

Tired, hurt, and so angry that his stomach ached, Clint made his way through the city until his shoulder burned like fire. It drove him to a place that took his money without a care for his name, and the room was as shitty as expected.

He threw all the locks, wished his pack back with his money and gun weren’t in Finch’s car, and carefully lowered himself down on a bare mattress that had seen better days. He was a back sleeper, but that wasn’t possible. Sleep probably wasn’t an option, but his body was giving up.

Crashing awake, breath roaring out, he let out a yowl as he scrambled to drag the phone out of his pocket. He really should’ve thrown it out.

“Are you alive?” Were the words Clint heard as he struggled not to scream.

“No!” He let it all out, but he was on his feet.

“Good.” The phone went dead. He crammed it in his front pocket and staggered as he got the hell out of the wherever he was. It was raining, of course, and he wanted to shake his fist at the sky, but he could barely stagger down the sidewalk

Surprise should’ve been the emotion when John Reese – hot legend – opened the back door of a large sedan parked illegally at the corner.

Furious, Clint fumbled inside where Harold Finch – tech nut – handed him a pill and a bottle of water.

“Antibiotic.” Harold wasn’t lying. Clint rolled his eyes, but he took it.

Reese drove, and Clint was embarrassed that he didn’t care where they ended up. When they stopped, he opened his eyes to glare at the guys in the front seat. “I was fine.”

Harold and Reese exchanged a look. “We’re all the same, Harold.”

“Determined to die unnecessarily?” Harold sighed. “Are there so many of you in training that they teach you to die as quickly as possible?”

“That’s just mean,” Clint grumbled.

“He can be that way,” Reese said. He turned around a smidge more. “Go inside the hospital, take a seat in the emergency room, wait for my name to be called. Follow the doctor. Do what she says.”

“And be polite. We like her.” Harold was firm on that point. “When you’re finished, dial one on your phone, Mr. Reese will pick you up in this spot.”

“Damn it.” Clint grunted from pain getting out the door, but when he saw the sign, he managed a rough smile. “Thanks.”

Neither of them answered, and they drove away. He sipped his water bottle and made the long trek to the Emergency Room door. Without making eye contact, he found a place to sit and wait. About the time his water was gone, he heard, “John Reese!”

Sighing, he followed the nurse through a maze to a private room. He hated hospitals.

“I put your stitches in, and I want to check my work.” She smiled, and he realized she was the doctor. “Did you take the antibiotic this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His Midwestern politeness leaked out. “Thanks for putting me back together.”

“Mr. Reese carved a huge hole in you.” She sounded put out by that, pointing at the examination table. “Have you showered today?”

“No.” He shivered a little at the idea. “Can I skip it for a few days?”

“Just make sure someone’s there unless you pass out.” She helped him out of his shirt, muttered and poked at him, and then redid the bandage, giving directions for him to ignore later. Finally, she helped him redress and sent him on his way. He slunk out of the hospital and called his ride.

Doing anything else seemed stupid. John picked him up, and he grunted as he got in the car. “Not doing that again.”

“Of course not. We were humoring her.” John got them moving. “We like her.”

“Makes sense.” Clint slumped in the car. “We should get coffee, and this time, I want to drink it.”

“I enjoy wearing coffee occasionally.”

Clint laughed, not expecting to, and gave up. He’d work for these guys, but he sure as hell wasn’t ever telling anyone that he’d let a legend slip through his hands. “Could’ve shot you.”

“Doubt it.”

***


	9. Chapter 9

*** 

“Are you finished, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked in John’s ear.

“He’s set.” John would keep a close eye on him for a while, just in case. “You’re sure about this? The Russians don't fool around.”

“Completely. He’ll do very well in Bed-Stuy.” Harold paused. “Meet me at number one?”

“I’ll stop at that Chinese place if you place the order.” John clicked off and pulled into traffic. By the time he got the food, Harold and Bear would be home. He was going to tease Harold about his crush on Hawkeye for the foreseeable future. He loved his job.

***  
End


End file.
